The Kig-yar Chronicles: Prolouge
Posted By: Halo Fanatic 2006<deathinator@hotmail.com>
Date: 8 June 2007, 8:36 pm
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Prologue
Master Chief John-117 tightened his grip on his BR55 rifle. He delved into a stealth crouch-walk and closed in on an unsuspecting Jackal. Within a second the butt of the weapon in the Spartan's hands had connected with the back of the fragile alien's skull, crushing it with a slight crack. Moments later the lifeless corpse sagged into the water, gently moving with the stream of liquid. Blood tainted the crystal clear substance as a solution ran down the stream and off the edge of a small cliff, and into a pool below. The corpse jerked along unsteadily as it reached the edge and fell into what might as well have been a pile of spikes. The skin and armour tore on impact upon the solid fluid, spewing yet more purple into the coloured water.
The Spartan ambled to the edge and surveyed the scene: Jackals, hiding in crevices and upon ledges, with Elites walking along the sides of the miniature valley, with some patrolling makeshift bridges of wood in the middle. In the distance there was the distinct sight of the rest of the ring, rising into the sky and towering above everything, before coming down behind the Chief. Halo. The Marines moved steadily along fearing as if each step would be their last. Boots splashed in the water as the UNSC soldiers walked up the stream, stopping at the Master Chief as if cowering behind him. They pretended not to exist, being as inconspicuous as possible to any watchers, or Snipers.
The particle beam that had exited its rifle less than a milli-second earlier impacted on the skull of an unsuspecting human. Splitting the helmet and reducing the man's brains to mush, it quickly made short work of the first target, while the Covenant brothers of the Kig-yar who owned the beam aimed down their scopes, shooting three more confused people as they fell to the floor like pins.
However, the Spartan was quicker than his comrades, and dodged the beam that had his name written on it before it left the gun. He dived forward, and the alien spectators watched in awe as he landed head first into the shallow pool, making a splash large enough to stop the shooting in its tracks. As it did, and the water cleared, white bursts of hell rang out in the valleys of Halo. The bullets impacted on the bodies and skulls of nearby unfortunates. John-117 fired until he couldn't fire any more. He lifted his arm to the bottom of the magazine, hefted it out of its slot with incredible ease, and readied a new one after dumping the old. He kept repeating himself, fuelling the onslaught. His visor shimmered in his reflection of the still water. There was silence. Almost silence. The steady squawks of the ring's inhabitants echoed through the air. Another three bullets penetrated the air, and something else, as a small fragile body hit the floor.
Then the distinct buzzes of alien Drones flying across the landscape broke the silence. They swarmed towards the Spartan and his party, delivering an instant barrage of green and purple snippets of alien technological hell. The lesser humans were running for cover, but the Demon stood absolutely still. The Drones closed in on the statue-still armoured man, before they got a taste of his lead. With a flurry of movement, he took off, firing a cloud of bullets at the unsuspecting aliens. Their shells were broken as they began to fall like the flies they might as well have been. John killed them without remorse, ending their lives as if he was the Grim Reaper himself.
The Spartan continued his trek, reaching the forerunner structures without further delay. Until, however two honour guards clad in red and golden armour rushed up the ramp, closing in on the back-pedalling human with flurries of their swords. The Demon fired four clips of his sidearm that was instantly in his hand at the head of the closest Elite, depleting his shield. John kicked the second back and inch or so as he shot straight through the open mandibles of the first enemy's mouth. Purple blood splattered on the ancient floor, travelling down the slope at its leisure.
He then finished the other off with a second taste of his metal boot, whirling it round for a roundhouse kick that almost tore the Elite's body from its legs. The unconscious guard plopped into the water below, the shields absorbing most of the impact, but leaving the lifeless foe to drown.
Death, destruction and despair were all that waited for anyone who would dare cross a Spartan warrior. Like their ancient names suggested, they were unstoppable. A demon never dies is the saying, although someone disagrees.
I'll get him, slowly, steadily. Step by step… almost…
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